I’ve read that novels don’t need an introduction, but Beckoning Candle is more than a novel. It is a nonfiction novel because it was inspired by true stories handed down by my ancestors. It depicts real historical figures and actual events woven together with imaginary conversations with the use of the storytelling techniques of fiction. Truman Capote claimed to have invented this genre with his book In Cold Blood in 1965.

In some instances, it’s 100% fiction.

Beckoning Candle is a sweeping family saga that spans four centuries. It is the story of two great nations and my ancestor’s struggle from tyranny—religious and political.

To better understand this saga, it will help if you know a little about my ancestry dating back to 1575.

John Willis and William Bradford were born in England in the 16th century. Both were Separatists because they separated from the Church of England, ruled by a king.

They were later contemporaries in the small village of Plymouth Colony, in the New World—America. They both lived out their lives there. Generations later two of their descendants fell in love! But I’m getting ahead of myself.

—Randy Willis

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Father had taught me much about being a cowman, and about life, too. He encouraged me to write it all down on my Big Chief writing tablets he’d bought me. He said it was so that, “Those who come after us might not make the same mistakes.”

I heard tell the crappie were biting down on Cocodrie Lake. But, this being Easter they’d just have to wait to jump into my boat. Our Dominicker rooster’s crowing reminded me I should start loading the wagon for church. I was truly excited, for Father had been asked to speak that day at Amiable Baptist. Father was frail but up to the task. There would be a huge supper on the grounds after church.

I’d told Mama we should have Easter eggs. A friend of mine from Spring Hill Academy told me all about them.

He said, “When my folks lived in Germany, they decorated eggs at Easter.”
Mama replied, “That will never catch on here. The hens would revolt, and me, too.”

“Mama, they hid them, too.”

She looked puzzled and asked, “Why in the world would they do that? Were they that ugly?”

“Not to worry, Mama, a rabbit then helps them find the eggs.”

“Son, I’m going down to that school tomorrow to see if they’ve been into the cooking sherry.”

I quickly changed the conversation. “Mama, what did you bake for the supper on the grounds?”

“Apple pie, of course. And, your father has butchered a hog, so were taking a smoked ham from our smokehouse, too. You know, son, Baptists love to eat. Some I know are digging their grave with a fork.”

Mother then added, “You know your Grandpa Daniel, Sr. was the pastor there for many years. He died a year and a week to the day after you were born. He was cut from the same cloth as his Grandfather Joseph Willis, and he even planted more churches than he did. He was the best man I ever knew. It was his words of wisdom from the Book that gave me strength to go on after the deaths of your brother and sisters.”

As our wagon rolled down the red dirt road I could see the church steeple pointing toward Heaven. It would forever remind me of Father’s words that day. As the folks gathered, father arose and slowing walked to the front of the crowd. Elwa held his arm to steady him. He spoke with a frail voice.

“Now, friends, as you know, I’m no preacher. But, I’ve been asked to speak a few words of my father, who is buried a few yards from here.

“But, then again, he’s not there. Now, some of ya might be thinking that’s not true. You might say, I was at his funeral. Others of you saw him in his open casket. A few of you helped lower his pine box in the ground, shoveled dirt on it, too.

“I can only explain why I believe that by using his own words about the loss of his Preacher. If you don’t mine, I’ll read them.

“’It was a sad day—the saddest day ever. For you see our Country Preacher had died. I trusted him. I’d staked my future on him. But now he was extinguished like a flickering candle in the wind. The young Preacher’s enemies, and there were many, had won. Success had eluded him, for you see he didn’t have enough money even for a grave, much less a marker. Fortunately, a kind soul gave him one.

The womenfolk buried him on a Friday, for you see none of the men could be found, save one.

“’Oh, yes, he’d made some promises, big ones too. The kind no man could keep. But, he now had faded as the autumn colors. As victors, his enemies would surely exact revenge on his friends, so they hid like rabbits in a hole. One broke his promise and denied him. Still, another betrayed him. Many others even hated him. He was rejected by the religious folk of that day.

“’The woman didn’t seem to be afraid though, and three days later went to the cemetery to tend to him. But, he was not there, for you see the Country Preacher had risen, just as He said he would. One of the women told his followers He was alive. After seeing all He’d done, one of friends even doubted that.’

“Today, many doubt that story, too, but I don’t. Now, my friends, that’s why I know my father is not in that grave cross the road. Because if it could not hold that Country Preacher, it cannot hold my father, or me one day in the not so distant future. He had taken death, the grave, and even Hell captive. I have but three words to say. They’re the three greatest words ever spoken: ‘He is risen.”’

As father ended his words, mother stood and began to sing, “Low in the grave he lay, Jesus my Savior.” We all joined in, “Up from the grave he arose; with a mighty triumph o’er his foes. He arose a victor from the dark domain, and he lives forever, with his saints to reign. He arose! He arose! Hallelujah! Christ arose!”

Yes, I was the first in line for Mama’s apple pie…but first I accepted the truth of my father’s words when I walked to the front of that church and knelt and asked Christ to come into my life and take over. For, you see, he arose for me, too, and you, too!

Joseph Willis had turned ninety-five in 1853. He decides to see the sights along the Mississippi River one last time. His swimming the mighty river on a mule-days are long since passed. This time he will travel on the Steamboat Paul Jones from Natchez to Baton Rouge. A cool breeze breaks up the unrelenting sun. Joseph places a wet towel around his neck to relieve the heat.

The steamboat passes another one loaded with convicts. Joseph sits on the main deck next to a seventeen-year-old boy whom the leadsman called Samuel. They both are watching the colossal paddle wheel churning the muddy waters when the boy turns to Joseph. “How do they navigate in these shallow waters? It looks unsafe!”

“What does that mean, Mister?” The boy crosses his arms while pushing his glasses up.

Joseph leans forward. “It means it’s the second mark on the line, two fathoms—twelve feet deep. That’s the safe depth for this steamboat. We’re in safe waters now.”

Samuel waves an offering of thanks to the leadsman. He also opens up to Joseph, explaining how his father died of pneumonia when Samuel was eleven and how he dreamed of being a steamboatman.

“Tell me more, Samuel.”

“I wasn’t expected to live when I was born. My brother and sister had already died of childhood diseases. Mother said God spared me because He had plans for me. She made me remember Bible verses. I washed that down with Shakespeare and read everything I could. Mother insisted I never throw a card or drink a drop of liquor, although I did occasionally slip off and smoke my corncob pipe.

“I figured no one was perfect. That is, until a late night thunderstorm convinced me that God wanted me to mend my ways, so I put my pipe aside. My righteousness did not last long, for I developed an aversion to slavery. Our local pulpit said it was in the Bible that God approved of it. It was a Holy Institution.

“After seeing a dozen men and women chained together to be shipped down the river, I determined that the church and I worshipped a different God. Those slaves had the saddest faces I’d ever seen, and the slave traders were human devils. My Father never laughed, yet he never was as unhappy as those slaves. It all made me want my dream even more.”

“Tell me about that dream?”

Samuel’s eyes sparkle. “When I was a lad living on the banks of the Mississippi, in Hannibal, I could see the steamboats go up and down the river. I wanted to ride one. One day a big steamer moored up at our little town—this was my chance. After all, I’d already fished away the summer.

“The steamboat advertised it was a ‘lifeboat’—I reckoned that meant it was safe and would provide the time of my life. I reckoned wrong—at least about the safe part! It was the kind of lifeboat that wouldn’t save anybody.

“I became overjoyed to be on a real sure-enough steamboat, enjoying the motion of the swift-moving craft until it commenced to rain. When it rains in the Mississippi country, it rains. The rain drove me to cover. I realized it was not a lifeboat when the rain was almost my demise. I thought I would die as the red-hot cinders from the big stacks came drifting down and stung my legs and feet. Would I ever see my home again?

“For some reason, Mama’s supper came to my mind. I expressed my desire to get off that boat. They put me ashore in Louisiana. I finally made it back home.

“Mister, please excuse me if I was a little edgy when the leadsman yelled mark twain. I thought it meant something bad.”

“Just the opposite, son.” With a slow smile, Joseph assures him they are safe.

Samuel raises his thick eyebrows. “Where you headed?”

“Only as far as Baton Rouge,” Joseph mutters, fanning himself from the heat with one hand. “Seven thousand people have died this year in N’Orleans from the yellow fever epidemic. I want to go to Heaven—but not today. Baton Rouge is far enough.”

“Your story of the lifeboat wrongly advertised reminds me of Louisiana’s Governor Johnson.”

“How’s that, Sir?” Samuel asks, scratching his head.

“The good Governor got the great state of Louisiana to build the state prison in Baton Rouge. I’m considering visiting those inmates we passed earlier and tell ‘em about a real lifeboat.”

“What kind of boat is that, Mister?” Samuel gazes at Joseph.

“One built many years ago by a feller named Noah. His boat was mark twain, too—safe from the dangers that lurked in the murky waters below. That boat had no helm, for it was not guided by human hands.”

“I love a good story, Sir. I fancy myself as a storyteller. Would tell me the rest of it?”

“Be glad to. God told Noah He was going to destroy the Earth because of its wickedness. But, God was also going to provide a way of protection from His judgment. The Lord told Noah to build a boat—a boat of safety, if you will. The Good Book says Noah found grace in the eyes of the Lord. That was the first time that word appeared in the Bible. Noah received the unmerited favor of God. Grace provided deliverance from the Lord’s judgment.

“Now there was a lot to be done. The Lord told Noah to build the boat out of gopher wood. We call it cypress in Louisiana. It will not rot in our lifetime.

“’Put pitch on the inside and outside too,’ the Lord insisted. The word pitch in the Hebrew means atonement. We need to be in Jesus just as Noah needed to be in that boat. As the storms of God’s wrath beat upon the ship, the winds of God’s wrath would later beat upon the Lord Jesus. If we are on the inside, not one drop of judgment can come through. We are sealed with that atoning pitch—Christ’s atoning blood.

“It took Noah more than 100 years to build it. It takes a lot of faith in the Lord’s promise to do that. The boat was built like an ancient coffin. There was no steamboat pilot to guide it—only God.

“The Lord gave precise instructions. ‘Set the door of the boat in its side.’ There was only one door to pass through to escape God’s judgment. Jesus is that one door.

“By faith, Noah and his family entered the boat. Once they were all inside, the Lord shut the door. God sealed the door—not Noah. ‘Put a window in the top of the boat, Noah, so you can look to Heaven for all your needs.’

“God had Noah build rooms in the boat. There is a room for me. There is room for you—for the asking.

“Noah’s boat floated many days. It finally landed on Mount Ararat on the seventeenth day of the seventh month. That’s our April 17th—the same day Jesus rose from the grave. Noah went into the boat with little, but when he came out, the entire world was his.”

“What is your name, Mister?”

“Joseph Willis.”

“You should be a preacher.”

Joseph smiles at the irony of that statement. “Grace provides our Salvation. Grace provides our Savior. Grace provides our security—grace keeps us. But, we all must choose to put our trust or not to put our trust in God’s ark of salvation—Jesus. There’s still room in that ark of safety.”

“I reckon Heaven goes by favor.” Samuel exhales. “If it went by merit, we would stay out, and our dogs would go in.”

“That’s a clever way to put it. You should be a writer.”

Joseph Willis died in 1854, at age ninety-six in his beloved Louisiana. Forever in the ark of salvation—Christ.

*****

#destiny by #randywillis

Destiny is a powerful epic with love stories, battles, testimonies, drama, politics, history, and even humor.

I’m thankful to the many people that encouraged me to write our family’s history. My first-cousin, Donnie Willis, planted the first seed in my mind to write about our 4th Great-Grandfather, Joseph Willis. Donnie has been pastor of Fenton Baptist Church in Fenton, Louisiana, for 50 years.

I’m also thankful to my sainted grandmother, Lillie Hanks Willis. She had a treasure chest of stories about Joseph Willis and insisted I write them down.

My Uncle Howard Willis was our family’s master storyteller when I was younger. I sat for many hours mesmerized by him. His granddaughter and my cousin Kimberly Willis Holt was inspired by him too. She is a National Book Award Winner, author of When Zachary Beaver Came to Town, My Louisiana Sky, and the Piper Reed series. When Zachary Beaver Came to Town and My Louisiana Sky were adapted as films of the same names.

I’m thankful to my late cousin, and the maternal great-grandson of Joseph Willis, Dr. Greene Wallace Strother. His uncle Polk Willis and Aunt Olive Willis tended to Joseph Willis in his final years, and they shared all that Joseph told them. Dr. Strother gave his vast research to me in 1980. He served as chaplain to General Claire Chennault’s “Flying Tigers” while in China as a missionary. He was a Southern Baptist missionary emeritus to China and Malaysia.

Karon McCartney, Archivist at the Louisiana Baptist Convention, has provided much help in organizing, cataloging, and protecting my research for decades, at the Louisiana Baptist Building in Alexandria.

My fellow historian and friend, the late Dr. Sue Eakin asks me if I would help her with her research on William Prince Ford. I learned much about William Prince Ford and Solomon Northup and their relationship to Joseph Willis from her. She encouraged me to have my research adapted into a play. The play is entitled Twice a Slave and is based upon my novel of the same name. My novel Three Winds Blowing is partly based on the relationship of Joseph Willis with William Prince Ford and Solomon Northup.

Dr. Eakin is best known for documenting, annotating, and reviving interest in Solomon Northup’s 1853 book Twelve Years a Slave. She, at the age of eighteen, rediscovered a long-forgotten copy of Solomon Northup’s book, on the shelves of a bookstore, near the LSU campus, in Baton Rouge. The bookstore owner sold it to her for only 25 cents. In 2013, 12 Years a Slave won the Academy Award for Best Picture. In his acceptance speech for the honor, director Steve McQueen thanked Dr. Eakin: “I’d like to thank this amazing historian, Sue Eakin, whose life, she gave her life’s work to preserving Solomon’s book.”

I’m blessed by and thankful for my three sons: Aaron Willis, Joshua Willis, and Adam Willis. Their strength of character has been demonstrated many times in how they treat those who can do nothing for them. The character Jimbo, in three of my novels, was inspired by them.

And above all, I am thankful to the Good Lord. He has given me wells I did not dig, and vineyards I did not plant.

—Randy Willis

Preach Christ at all times. When necessary, use words.

“Sow an act, and you reap a habit. Sow a habit and you reap a character. Sow a character, and you reap a destiny.”

Randy Willis is as much at home in the saddle as he is in front of the computer where he composes his western family sagas.

Drawing on his family heritage of explorers, settlers, soldiers, cowboys, and pastors, Randy carries on the tradition of loving the outdoors and sharing it in the adventures he creates for readers of his novels.

He is the author of Destiny, Twice a Slave, Three Winds Blowing, Louisiana Wind, Beckoning Candle, The Apostle to the Opelousas, The Story of Joseph Willis, and many magazine and newspaper articles.

Randy Willis is an American novelist, biographer, rancher, and music publisher.